


Blackest Knight

by Skyblaze



Category: Knight Rider (1982), The Crow: Stairway To Heaven
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyblaze/pseuds/Skyblaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Michael had actually died on that starry night in Nevada? What if he was brought back by The Crow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackest Knight

**Blackest Knight**

 

_In some cultures it is believed that when a person dies, his soul is carried to the land of the dead by a crow._

_But sometimes, if the soul has unfinished business in the world of the living, the crow can bring the soul back. These avatars are neither living nor dead, but they are personification of justice, and the embodiment of revenge._

 

 

"Tanya, pick up his gun." Police lieutenant Michael Long instructed the blonde woman beside him.

"That won't be necessary," Tanya said as she gave him a chill smile, and stepped over to where Lonnie and Wilson were standing, "I have one of my own." A small Italian automatic appeared from inside her white fur coat and she trained it on him.

"You're working with them?" It wasn't a question. His voice was flat with contempt.

"Ahh, I've disappointed you." Her cold smile was still in place as she stared at him, eyes glittering icily.

"Tanya, give me the gun." He said, still hoping that perhaps he could get through to her.

No such luck.

"I intend to." She replied as she pulled the trigger

The world around him exploded in fiery agony as pain shot through the nerves in his face. He collapsed back on the hood of his car. The pain and the blood all he was aware of. Each pulse of his heart sent a fresh wave of agony and he gave up trying to fight, instead letting himself fall into soothing warm darkness, free of pain, free of everything.

He was dying - but his job wasn't over yet. He still hadn't made a difference.

 

\---

White light.

It was bright, but it didn't hurt his eyes, instead, it soothed away all the pain. Voices murmured in his ears, but he could see no one nearby.

‘ _He is the one?’_ One voice whispered.

‘ _Yes. Saved from the fire. His work is not done.’_

‘ _He will have help.’_

‘ _Of course.’_

"Is anyone there?" Michael called, but the voices didn't answer. Where was he anyway? How did he get from the Nevada desert to here? Suddenly, a terrible certainty hit him.

"Am I...dead?"

‘ _Hush now.’_ A smooth, comforting voice soothed him, _‘I shall take you home, now.’_ Michael noted absently that this voice had an odd Boston twang. ‘Great,’ he thought, ‘an angel that speaks with a Boston accent...’

Then he felt hands take hold of him, and seemed to hear the sound of wing beats and the harsh cry of a crow before he could no longer hold onto his own thoughts as the strange reality slipped away.

 

\---

Wilton Knight peered down at the man on the narrow bed in front of him as he awaited its occupant to regain consciousness. The bandage-swathed patient on the bad struggled to raise his hand, despite the restraints there that were designed to keep him from harming himself. The hand curled into a fist as its effort to rise and to fight was thwarted.

Wilton fancied he could hear the man's thoughts. A burning need for justice and revenge. A need to take action and keep fighting. A need to make a difference. Wilton was familiar with all of those needs. He smiled.

"That's right, Michael. Get mad, and stay mad. Your anger will keep you going until you find your true purpose. Use your anger, son."

His was a proud and noble family, they had fought the good fight for many years, pillars of society all of them. They had links with law organisations the world over, as well as more shadowy groups who dealt with what ordinary people couldn't. They walked the line between darkness and light, keeping one safe from the other. At times, it even got hard to remember which side they were protecting.

But Wilton was the last of his line, when he died there would be none left to continue the work. And yet, he had called Michael, 'son'.

The door behind him opened and Wilton's most trusted associate walked in. His name was Devon Miles, a British man with silver/blonde hair, and ascetic face and a reserved disposition. A Doctor wearing a lab coat, who quickly went over to the bed and proceeded to cut off the bandages covering Michael's face, accompanied Devon.

"I have good news Wilton," Devon began, but Wilton cut him off with a wave of his hand as Michael's eyes began to flutter open.

Michael opened his eyes carefully, wincing when the bright light in the room assaulted them. The first thing he saw were several people stood over him, looking at him in fascination. He knew what they had done to him - he had heard a voice explaining it and telling him that is was necessary.

"Is it that bad?" He managed to croak. The man in the lab coat shook his head.

"On the contrary, it's an excellent job." The Doctor said as he handed over a mirror. Michael peered at his new features.

"It isn't me." He said finally.

"It is now." The old man leaning on a cane said in a gravelly voice, "And it is a rather handsome face, even if I do say so myself." Michael recognized the voice instantly. That was the voice that had promised to explain everything to him, and he wanted that explanation now. He fixed the old man with a cold stare.

"You said you were going to explain this to me. I want to know right now. Why did you do this to me? Who are you? And why am I here?" Michael demanded.

Wilton waved his free hand again.

"All I can tell you right now is that it was...necessary. I have my reasons for all of this and I will explain it to you in due course - when you are ready. But for now, you need to rest."

With that, Wilton turned and hobbled toward the door, "But, Michael, remember your dreams - they may be more important than you realize." Then, the old man was gone. Devon followed him out.

"My dreams?" Michael asked in confusion, "Wait!" He called and tried to sit up, but was restrained by the doctor. Sighing in frustration, he sank back down onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

He felt different, and not just because of his new face. He reasoned that having a near-death experience will change anyone, but he knew that that wasn't quite it. He felt a kind of warmth, despite the relative chill of the room he was in. He tried to concentrate on the strange sensation, but it seemed to keep slipping out his reach. And what had Wilton meant when he said to remember his dreams? Michael had a sudden flash of memory as he remembered the dream he'd had before waking up here. Finally, he gave up trying to sort out his thoughts and settled into a restless doze.

 

\---

 

Devon followed Wilton down the corridor, a frown etched on his lean face.

"Are you sure about this, Wilton?"

Wilton stopped and turned to look at him.

"Yes, he's the avatar we've been looking for, I'm sure of it. And have you ever known me to be wrong with something like this?" Wilton asked, fixing Devon with a laser-beam glare. Devon gave up entirely.

"No, I can't say I have, but he doesn't seem very open to the idea."

"Neither was I when I first got involved in this, but I came around - so will he. The Council gave me the name, and the Powers themselves confirmed it - even though I do with they would supply Aspirin with their 'instructions'."

"I take your point. This must be important for them to get involved directly."

"Good, I'm glad we understand one another." Wilton said as he set off down the corridor again, "Now then, what was it you were trying to tell me earlier?"

Devon drew himself up almost proudly.

"The infusion went very well, the subject was surprisingly co-operative." Devon reported.

Wilton smiled, "Excellent. Those two are meant for each other."

"If Michael will accept him."

"He will," Wilton said, "It's his destiny after all." Wilton walked into his office and moved to look out of the window. "Has he given a name yet?" Wilton asked.

Devon nodded.

"Kitt." He replied.

 

\---

Fire flashed in his face, burning, burning. His throat burned with the pain of screaming. His face was fire, his eyes were fire. Agony consumed him, as did guilt, betrayal, anger. Blackness washed over him.

‘ _Hush, Michael._ ’ A voice whispered soothingly, _‘I'm here now; I'll take care of you.’_

The voice held that same calm Boston accent he remembered from his dream - the dream where he had been dead. Suddenly, Michael felt afraid. Was he dying again?

‘ _It will be all right, Michael. I promise.’_

A soft white light appeared, burning away the blackness, the fear and the pain. It reached out, and covered him in a soft embrace. It was like being enfolded in velvet.

Michael turned, and saw a small black bird - a crow land on a tree branch that had suddenly appeared at eye height. Without knowing why, he addressed his question to the bird.

"Who are you?"

And the bird spoke in reply;

‘ _Kitt...’_

 

_\---_

Several days later, Wilton decided that Michael was ready for the explanation. Michael waked into Wilton's office; the old man was sat at his desk, waiting for him.

"All right," Wilton began, "You might want to sit down, this may take a while." Michael eyed him warily, but took a seat.

"So, are you going to tell me what this is all about? Why you've brought me here and given me a strangers face?"

Wilton nodded.

"Do you remember what happened when you were shot?"

Michael's face twisted into a grimace.

"Yeah."

"What happened after you were shot?"

"I...don't know. I collapsed onto my car, then I woke up here." Michael frowned.

"No strange dreams, white lights or voices calling you?"

Michael looked up sharply, peering into the old man's inscrutable face.

"Let me tell you a secret, Michael," Wilton said seriously, "You were dead when we brought you here."

Michael frowned, trying to understand.

"You mean you resuscitated me?"

"No, we didn't need to. Something else brought you back."

Michael just stared at him, unable to comprehend what Wilton was trying to tell him. Wilton saw the confusion on the younger man's face he decided a small demonstration might be in order.

"Let me show you Michael." Wilton said, and before Michael could move, he pulled a gun from his desk draw, and shot him in the shoulder.

He flinched, but it caused him very little pain. Michael had been shot before, but this felt completely different. He felt cold, but somehow, powerful. He watched as the wound sealed up on it's own in a few seconds before his head snapped up to look directly at Wilton Knight, his eyes demanding answers. Wilton raised an eyebrow and indicated the mirror behind him. Michael looked into it and almost screamed in surprise.

His face had gone very pale, almost white, and dark streaks came down from his dark-ringed eyes and out from his black lips. Even his eyes had changed colour from their usual icy blue to a colour so dark it could have been black. Michael looked back at Wilton desperately.

"What am I? And what's with the Alice Cooper look?" He asked, terror and confusion touching his voice.

"What you are, Michael is dead." Wilton said.

_"What?!"_

"Let me finish. You were brought back to this plane for a reason. The 'Alice Cooper' look as you call it indicates that you have access to the powers of the Crow."

"The Crow?" Michael asked weakly.

"Allow me to explain." Wilton leaned back and his voice took on a narrative tone. "My family is a very old one, we have been involved with an organization called the Watchers Council since its inception. Part of our job is to defend the world against the creatures that live in the shadows and pray on the unwary. In other words, we help protect humans against Demons and Vampires."

"Is that what I am? A vampire?"

"Good lord, no. You are what we call an avatar. You were sent back from the other side to do a job, and to do this job, you are granted certain powers, as well as the aid of a familiar."

"Familiar? You mean like witches have?"

"In a manner of speaking. You are unlike most of the other avatars in that you do not have a single target."

"There are others like me?"

"Oh yes, most of them are sent back for the purpose of avenging their own deaths or that of a loved one and they usually work alone until their job is done, then they go back."

"So, I'm here to get revenge on Tanya? Then what do you have to do with this?"

Wilton shook his head, "I was sent to find you by the Powers That Be, because you are here for a different purpose. You were sent back to help people in need, people who cannot help themselves. In short, Michael, you are here to continue my legacy."

Michael rose from his chair, suddenly angry.

"What gave you the right to take over my life?" He demanded.

"You don't have a life any more Michael." Wilton said with a trace of humour, "The Powers gave me a vision of where I could find you, and the Watchers Council has been waiting for you for a long time 'A Knight born in fire, and raised from shadow, with the Crow on his surcoat and a black steed by his side. An avatar returned to do more than revenge.'"

"What does that mean?" Michael asked.

"It's part of an ancient prophecy, many of us believe it applies to you."

"I don't care." Michael fumed, and he made to walk out, "I'm not playing this game any more."

Wilton hobbled after him and sighed. "I was afraid you would feel that way. Come with me, I'll introduce you to someone who might be able to change your mind."

"Who?"

"Your familiar, and the one who returned you to this plane." Wilton replied.

\---

 

The arrived in an enormous garage space, and the first thing that Michael saw was his beloved black Pontiac TransAm.

"Hey, my car! I only just finished the payments on it too!"

But as he came closer, he could feel the peculiar warmth that head before start to increase and he could see that the front of the car was now adorned with a bright red light that swept back and forth with a soothing, rhythmic, sweeping sound.

Michael stood right in front of the car, and was suddenly hit by a massive wave of dizziness as he seemed to see himself from another point of view, as well as his own, his knees buckled, but someone caught him and held him upright. When he had regained his equilibrium he opened his eyes, and saw that it was Devon Miles. He'd met the man several times. He was okay, if a little stuffy.

"Are you all right Mr. Long?" Devon asked in his cultured British voice.

"I'm fine," Michael replied as he regained his balance, "Just felt dizzy for a while there." Michael turned back to Wilton, "Why am I in here anyway? I thought I was supposed to meet my 'familiar'."

Wilton smiled. "And so you shall," He swept out his free hand to indicate the beautiful black sports car that stood gleaming under the strip lights, "Michael, may I introduce Kitt, your familiar and the one to whom you owe you un-life."

For an instant, Michael thought there must have been some mistake, until his car spoke to him.

"Hello Michael."

He almost fell over again when he heard that. The car spoke in the same voice that he had been speaking to him in his dreams since he got here, soothing the disturbing nightmare images and calming his guilt and anger.

"I... thought you said that this was my familiar..."

"Let me explain." Devon began, "Wilton has a large collection of books on the subject of avatars and their familiars. A familiar is more spirit than form, although they usually appear in the form of a black crow. Using a little-known ritual in one of the books, we managed to infuse the spirit of your familiar with your car. Creating this entity."

"We also added several technical capabilities to the power he already possessed," Wilton added, "The car is now almost indestructible, due to a special molecular bonding on the outer shell, and there are also various speed enhancements."

Michael reached out to touch the black skin, it felt silky smooth, and warm. It was like touching a living being.

"Wow." Michael murmured. He looked up at Devon and Wilton, "Can I take it for a ride?"

Devon looked dubious, but Wilton smiled and nodded. "Yes, of course. But I need to go and lie down, I'm not as young as I once was."

Michael watched the old man go, before he hopped into the car. To his surprise, Devon slipped into the passenger seat.

 

\---

It was a wonderful day for a drive.

The sun shone brightly down on the somewhat rough highway that wound it's way outside the Knight estate.

The controls of the car were complex, but the ride was smoother than in any other car he'd ever encountered. But still, Michael's hands shook slightly where they rested on the strangely shaped steering wheel as he tried to equate the steady, solid rational ideas he had always had before, to what he now knew to be the truth.

He was dead. Tanya had shot him in that damn desert, and he'd died. His soul had been brought back by a crow, and said crow now inhabited this car.

"I can't believe this." Michael said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Can't believe what?" Devon asked him. Michael spared him a brief glance out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh come on. A Crow brought my spirit back from the land of the dead? Vampires, some Mysterious group of British guys saying they know my destiny? Please...!"

Devon gave him a serious look, and Michael knew instinctively that his opinion was just about to be revised.

"Now, Michael, you were a police officer, how often were things reported to you that you just couldn't bring yourself to believe. Stories of people sucking other people's blood. Of strange creatures with odd coloured skin, of people who just exploded into dust?"

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, he had heard about things like that all the time, and most often dismissed it as the weird imaginings of drunks, druggies or weirdoes. But sometimes, late at night in Reno, you could almost believe it. Devon spoke again, softer this time.

"And how often did you yourself see things that you couldn't explain? How often did you put it out of your mind and try and convince yourself that you were just seeing things? Hmm?"

More often than he would have ever admitted.

Strange occurrences happened all the time, but sane 'normal' people just ignored it, in the sure belief that if it didn't fit in with their rational view of the world, then it couldn't possibly be real. Michael opened his mouth to reply when a shrill beep sounded inside the cabin. Devon responded by pushing a few buttons, and a voice suddenly came from the speakers.

"Mr. Miles?" It said, "You better come back right away."

A look of barely disguised dread washed over the Englishman's face. "Wilton?" He asked. The voice on the other end of the line hesitated.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be right there." Devon said, pushing another button to end the conversation.

"What's wrong with Wilton?" Michael asked worriedly. Devon felt briefly touched by the concern in the younger man's voice. Devon sighed heavily.

"He's dying."

The surprise and pain on Michael's face was so much a quiet echo of his own feelings that Devon couldn't help but feel a brief pang of sorrow.

"I suggest you engage auto cruise, it will be quicker." Devon said, getting back to business.

Michael tentatively pushed the backlit red button marked 'auto'. The car suddenly did a perfect 180 spin and zoomed down the road at an insane speed.

"WHAT THE HELL??!" Michael almost screamed. Devon couldn't help but laugh.

 

\---

The arrived just barely in time.

Wilton was there, his doctors gathered around in the doorway, whispering in quiet voices. But Michael knew they were too late, he could smell that death in the room, could almost feel Wilton's life energy ebbing away. He shuddered; it was a cold and terrible feeling.

"Enjoy your drive, Michael?" Wilton rasped. Michael nodded dumbly, unable to articulate a response.

"Come closer." The old man on the bed beckoned. Michael approached, and Wilton seized his arm with a wasted hand and held on with all his strength, "You have been brought back to lead a great fight..."

Michael shook his head adamantly. "I'm no leader."

"You don't need to be." Wilton coughed, a terrible tearing sound, "One man can make a difference, Michael." Wilton's voice was fading now, like a dying sunset as eternal night approached, "You are destined to be that man.." He paused to cough again, "My adventure is over...but yours, yours has just begun..."

Wilton's eyes closed for the last time the grip he was keeping on Michael's hand tightened for an instant, and in a flash, Michael saw flashes of memory, of places, friends family, lovers. The mental mesh that was an abbreviated version of the life of Wilton Knight.

Then, Michael passed out.

 


End file.
